Tell Me Something Real Read Online Free PDF Page A

because technically I am a child.”
    I meet her eyes, which contain every possible emotion. I expect to see frustration and annoyance, but I see so much more. She looks almost angry, and that makes her look almost strong.
    â€œI don’t understand why you can’t see a movie,” I say. “I don’t get it.”
    â€œWe can watch TV. We have popcorn.”
    I wipe my cheeks dry. “I want to go out.”
    â€œGet your bike, then.”
    â€œI hate your cancer!” My voice rises an octave with each word. I turn back around. This will be our last summer together, the last time she’ll be here when we come home from the last day of school. Just one instance in a long series of last occasions: last Fourth of July, last daylight savings, last birthdays.
    Mom is the only person who can be quieter than me.
    â€œI really hate it.” I throw a spoon into the dishwasher, butit hits the floor. I throw another one and then slam the dishwasher shut.
    She absorbs my tantrum. A minute passes before she leaves the kitchen without a word.
    I drove her to her room, probably for the rest of the day, now ruined.
    I’m alone with my chores, I think, as I wipe down the counter and kitchen table, sweeping the crumbs into the palm of my hand. I leave Mom’s mug of tea, still warm.
    An empty box from the clinic, once filled with vitamins and medication, blocks the entrance to the family room. I kick it aside, a little too hard. Consumed by the final weeks of school, we haven’t bothered to pick up after ourselves. Art supplies, a torn Twister mat, books, magazines, and at least two dozen records cover the family room floor. She is sick. She doesn’t feel well. She can’t help it, I remind myself as I slide the records into their assigned places, following Dad’s instructions: alphabetical order by the name of the band. Even with the albums and books returned to shelves, the room looks nothing like it once did, back when Mom organized piles of clutter. Now, water stains cover the end tables, overlapping concentric circles distorting the wood, which I cover with a fan of old Seventeen magazines.
    I look up when she clears her throat. Mom hugs her pillow, and car keys dangle from her hand.
    â€œI’d better drive,” she says. “You haven’t had enough practice.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t feel well enough,” I say.
    â€œI’ll manage. I can nap in the theater if I need to.”
    I’m being selfish. A baby. Already, she looks paler than just five minutes ago. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
    â€œIt’s the last day of school. You’re right—we should celebrate.”
    She joins me in the family room, lowering herself onto the couch as though the soft cushion will somehow hurt. “You’re missing a lot because of me. I know you’re disappointed about music camp.” She runs her hand through my tangled hair, liberating knots. “I know how hard you work. I know what you do for me. I forget to thank you, sweetie.”
    I rest my head in her lap. “We don’t have to go.”
    â€œBut I want to. You’re right, a movie shouldn’t be too taxing.”
    I wrap my arms around her, wanting to be as close as possible, anything to keep her next to me. I want to stop thinking of today, or any day, as being numbered, a cruel countdown.
    â€œI don’t care what we see,” I say.
    â€œGood, because I have it planned out. Now, please help me up.”
    We drive for twenty minutes, away from the border, leaving San Diego and heading toward the northern part of the county. Brush replaces grass as we follow the ocean. Her fingers circle the steering wheel, and her wedding ring glints in the sunlight. When we finally pull into the parkinglot, she says, “Let’s save Bad News Bears for Marie. How does Carrie sound?”
    She knows I’ve been dying to see it, any horror movie where chaos and murder